


Time Tested, Ice Cold

by paradiamond



Series: Great Bastards [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:27:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradiamond/pseuds/paradiamond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brynden Rivers, now the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, receives an impossible visitor at Castle Black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Tested, Ice Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to 'His Dark Sister' but it is not strictly necessary to have read it to understand this.

The sun is going down in the north and the darkness descending. The Wall, genius piece of architecture that it is, is a hellishly unpleasant place to live. The majority of the people are crass bastards, both literally and figuratively, with no manners and nor grace. No room in the entirety of Castle Black, including and especially the chambers of the Lord Commander, is warm. It is dark for much of the year, uncomfortable at all times, and the living conditions are consistently dangerous. The Wall is absolutely nothing like Kings Landing. 

In truth, the unpleasant, unforgiving, and unwelcoming structure suits Brynden Rivers quite well. He always hated Kings Landing. 

“Lord Commander?” A timid voice calls from the doorway, and Brynden turns to see his squire shaking in his boots. A small and ridiculous boy, the squire that Brynden had inherited from the now dead Lord Commander Fenrick had been nothing but a pain in Brynden’s side since he inherited the position. Brynden doesn’t make a habit of throwing away potentially useful things however, and one day the shaking squire might be an asset. If Brynden doesn’t throw him off the Wall for spilling his ale first. 

“What,” he asks, turning back to his fire. Most of what Brynden has to deal with on the day to day is a waste of time. No doubt Marcus Snow had ‘accidentally’ killed another trainee or some other nonsense. 

There’s an uncomfortable moment of silence. He hears the squire shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Ser Maynard Plumm is here is speak with you.” Brynden turns quickly and the squire flinches, no doubt at the sight of Brynden’s marked face or his red eye.

“I see,” he says slowly, turning the information over in his head. He walks over to his desk to sit down in the heavy, high backed, dark wood chair he’d had brought to the room to replace the previous and much more welcoming one. Years spent among the dramatic and important have taught him how to cultivate exactly the image he desires. The squire lingers in the doorway as Brynden makes short work of folding up and stuffing away the plans he had been drafting for the spy network he desired for beyond the Wall. 

He glances back up. “Send him in, and then you are dismissed for the night.” The squire trips over his own feet to get out of the room and Brynden settles back, smirking. So, Maynard Plumm had come to the Wall. As much as he despised the simpering, courtly aspects of Kings Landing, it had been too long since Brynden had the chance to play these kinds of games. Being Lord Commander is similar in many ways to being Hand of the King, especially as Brynden had done it, but the position is significantly more straightforward. 

He doesn’t have long to wait, within seconds of the squire scuttling out of the room another figure is darkening his door. Brynden has to restrain himself from leaning forward to get a closer look, choosing to maintain his cold aloofness instead. The man is the right size, the right build, and as far as Brynden can tell in the dimming light, has the right face. 

“I must say I’m impressed, _Ser_ ,” Brynden says, choosing not to raise his voice. He pauses, watching the man watch him. Maynard does not respond, so Brynden cannot assess his voice yet. “I heard that Maynard Plumm had been killed in the Second Blackfyre Rebellion, and yet here you are.” 

Maynard smiles, but keeps his head down. “Rumors of my...demise have been greatly exaggerated.” 

“Is that so,” Brynden says, frowning. The voice is incorrect as he suspected, the mark of a lazy sorcerer. Whoever he is, he didn’t even have the grace to impersonate Brynden _correctly._ “Pray tell, where have you been? Your family must have missed you dearly.” 

“I doubt that,” the imposter says, walking over to the table. Brynden watches in increasing distaste as the man sits down without being asked to do so. When he puts his feet up on the table, Brynden stands from his seat and marches over to him, thinking to throw him off the top of the Wall for his impertinence. 

Maynard watches his approach, looking completely unconcerned. When Brynden gets close enough to see his eyes, he understands why. One green, one blue.

“Shiera,” he breathes, shocked. 

Maynard Plumm grins and melts away, revealing the most beautiful woman in the world. “Hello lover,” she says, standing to greet him properly. “Did you like my disguise?” 

“Very funny,” Brynden says, hands going to her waist immediately and of their own violation, pulling her close. He doesn’t think about the people that might walk in, or of his duty. He only sees her. “What are you doing here?” 

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh, I don’t know. After all there are so many reasons for me to come to this frozen wasteland-” Laughing, he cuts her off by kissing her, and she responds in kind, rising to the balls of her feet to better meet him. 

He kisses her like a dying man, desperate for it. He hadn’t seen her since he went to the Wall, and so hadn’t kissed or held a woman in years. Shiera pulls him back by the collar so she can sit herself on the table and wrap her legs around his waist. Brynden follows her, as he always does, and puts his hands in her hair, running his fingers through the strands. It feels exactly as he expects, the softness achingly familiar. 

She laughs, and wraps her arms around his shoulders. “I lied.” 

Brynden pulls away slightly and gives her a dry look. “Shocking,” he answers, still playing with her hair, Targaryen silver and nearly waist long. The same as the day he first saw her at court all those years ago.

Shiera pinches him hard and then leans away, though not moving out of his reach. “I came here for a reason, not just to visit,” she says, playful again. A woman of many changeable moods, as always. 

“Really,” Brynden says, leaning forward to place his hands on the table, effectively bracketing her in. She nods earnestly, and innocent look crossing over her face that had led many men to their deaths. He leans back slightly, giving her an inch. No doubt she would take a mile. “What then? Why have you come?”

She leans close, pressing herself against him. Her mouth right next to his ear. Brynden shivers. “I’ve been sent by the gods to test your vows, Lord Commander. Will you-”

“Yes,” he says immediately, and kisses her again. She giggles and moves with him, tracing the seam of his lips with her tongue until he grants her access. She feels hot and dangerous this way, just like he knows that she is, knows that she had poisoned men this way in the past. Given them the sweetest death imaginable. He’s trusting her with his life, as always. 

They break apart, and he puts his forehead against her and meets her eyes. “The only _vow_ I made that ever truly mattered to me was the one I made to you when I asked you to marry me.” 

Shiera’s eyes narrow. “I did not accept-” 

“I don’t care,” he says, leaning down to kiss her neck, right above her alternating gemstone necklace. “I _don’t_ care about the Night’s Watch, or about the King, any King, or about our father looking down on us. I don’t.” 

She shifts her hips, pressing against him and he muffles a groan into her neck. It had been far too long. Though he’s sure that she had not done the same for him, he would never touch another. Shiera smiles, he can feel it. “That’s nice, now are you going to have me tonight, _Bloodraven_ , or…?” 

“Yes,” he says, in a clipped tone, knowing that she called him that intentionally to antagonize him. “But not on a table Shiera, try to have a modicum of class.” 

“Never,” she whispers in his ear, laughing as he slides his arms lower to pick her up, carrying her back into his room. She wraps her arms around his neck, and tightens her grip on his waist, making his breath hitch in expectation. She’s the same as ever. 

Brynden may have changed in many ways since leaving the south, but certainly not in this, not with her. He drops her down onto the bed, earning himself a playful glare as he strips off his clothes, throwing them to random places in the bed chamber, uncaring. Shiera does the same, tossing her traveling dress to the side without a second glance. It is supremely distracting, and Brynden falters in his course. Amused, Shiera gets to her knees to help him unlace his breeches, looking up at him with her mismatched eyes. _She really is the most beautiful woman in the world._

Overcome, Brynden pulls her forward by the arm so he can kiss her again, holding her to him tightly. Shiera responds in kind, taking control of the kiss and pulling him down, onto the bed with her. In a matter of seconds, Brynden finds himself rolled onto his back, Shiera grinning down at him from above. 

“Oh no lover…” she says, running his fingers lightly down his chest, then her nails. “What have we here.” 

Brynden smirks, slowly sliding his hands up her thighs until they rest on her hips. She wiggles them a bit, making a show of getting comfortable and eliciting a gasp from her prey. “Seems you have me trapped,” he says, playing their old game. 

A slow smiles spreads across her face. “Oh Brynden…” She leans down and presses a kiss to his collarbone. “What ever shall I do to you?” 

***

The mornings always dawn cold at the Wall, even by Northern standards. The fires cannot begin to defeat the icy chill of the early hours, but Brynden has long gotten used to them. This morning though, he’s almost warm, though there’s never a fire burning when Brynden wakes. He told his steward long ago that he was never to enter his chambers without his explicit permission, even to do his duties. The warmth comes from Shiera. 

“Are you awake?” she asks, in his ear, and he stirs underneath her. She’s resting her crossed arms on his chest and has her chin propped up on them, he can tell by the feeling. It’s a position they’ve been in many times before, Shiera using him as her personal pillow. “Brynden…” 

“What,” he mutters, still partly asleep. The sun isn’t properly up yet, not that it ever really shines to its full potential as far north as Brynden has consigned himself. Shiera moves against him and he turns instinctively to wrap his arms around her so she can’t leave. 

She allows it, giggling softly in the way she only does when he’s around, or so he tells himself. “I have a present for you,” she breathes, stroking a hand through his hair. 

He smirks, opening his eyes. “Didn’t I get it already?” 

Shiera huffs and tries to get up, but Brynden has her pinned. “Is my gift that you’re staying here with me?” He leans down to kiss her, only half joking. “Because that is what I want.” 

She rolls her eyes. “I thought that you were relinquishing all tie to your past life, embracing the Watch-”

“Fuck the Watch,” he says, not joking at all. 

She smiles, all mischief, and somehow slips from his grasp. “I’m pleased to hear you feel that way, that will make this easier,” she says, standing from the bed and padding over to her pile of things. Brynden watches her movements with ever increasing interest as she bends over to pick something up, then he sees it. 

He sits up, exasperated. “Shiera, I gave that to you for-”

“Hush,” she says, turning around and brandishing Dark Sister. “I have my reasons.” 

“It it your legacy, you deserve-” 

Shiera rolls her eyes. “I don’t need it anymore, Brynden. Not Dark Sister, not the Targaryen legacy, Shiera Seastar can speak for herself.” When Brynden opens his mouth to protest again, she hold up her hand. “This is my decision. I’m a big girl, I know what I’m doing.” 

He finds that can’t argue with her logic. Brynden swings his legs over the side of the bed so he can sit up properly for this conversation. “Very well,” he says, displeased at having his gift thrown back in his face. 

“I’m leaving Westeros-” 

He narrows his eyes. “ _What-_ ” 

“Don’t interrupt,” Shiera snaps, giving him a sharp look that quiets him. Brynden crosses his arms over his chest, irritated but willing to listen. She continues, twirling the sword absently, expertly. People tend to forget that magic and beauty aren’t Shiera’s only weapons. “I have business to attend to in Essos, and I can bring this with me, but I can’t use it there. It’s far too distinctive a blade.” 

Brynden nods, because she is right. A thought occurs to him. “Why not leave it in the Capitol for when you return?” he asks icily, a dark suspicion forming in his mind. 

She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t be deliberately obtuse brother you know it doesn’t suit you.” 

“Fine. I’ll come with you then,” Brynden says, trying to maintain some control over the conversation. 

She actually laughs at him. “You will _not._ ” 

“Shiera-” 

“No. Besides, you would be an oathbreaker as well as a kinslayer, and then I would be embarrassed to have you,” Shiera says, teasing. Her words threaten to cut him deep, so he ignores them, focusing instead on the sword. She holds it formally, balancing the blade on her shoulder and resting the hilt on her wrist. Offering it to him. “Here. Stop sulking now, I kept it sharp for you.” 

Brynden glares at her, but she doesn’t waver. She never does. At length, he stands, coming forward to stand in front of her. She tips her chin up and gives him a look of challenge, and so he reaches to take back his old sword, the sword of his forebears. Shiera smiles as he lifts it up, examining the blade. It is well maintained, that much is clear, and recently sharpened. He brings it closer to his face and sees small traces of blood that Shiera missed, or left for him. 

Shiera takes a step away, giving him space to give it an experimental swing. “I really am alright with it,” she says, serious now. “I don’t need a sword to know that the Targaryen legacy is mine, and I don’t need the Targaryen legacy to know my own strenght in any case.” 

Brynden nods, understanding the truth of her words. He felt a similar way when he left. Now it is her turn. Though he maintains the position that leaving it behind to start over at the Wall was the right thing to do at the time, he thinks he understands why Shiera is giving it back to him now that he is Lord Commander. She could have kept it as a token, hidden away by magic, but instead she came hundreds of miles north. He tightens his grip. It feels right, the sword of his ancestors back in his hands. 

“I accept your gift,” he says with confidence as Shiera winds her arms around him from behind. 

Shiera stays at the Wall in the guise of Maynard Plumm for several days. He sees her occupying herself with some kind of scrying magic during the day as Brynden the Lord Commander takes care of business, and spending time with him at night. The other men give them a wide berth, too afraid or too smart to ask questions about their mysterious guest or the sudden appearance of the infamous sword at Brynden’s hip. Only his nephew Aemon is brave enough to even mention it to his face, and Brynden shuts him down immediately. 

They spend a lot of time on the top of the Wall, disguised from all other eyes and looking out at the landscape of the frozen north. The true north. Much of their time is spent in silence. It used to be that Brynden would ask her to marry him, nearly pleading and desperate for her, now he just wants her to remain at his side. 

Shiera demures, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “Perhaps I would stay...if women were allowed. But alas, here we are.” 

Brynden shoots her a disapproving look. “You know that is impossible,” he says, though inside he’s already giving it some serious consideration. Wildling women fight alongside their men and yet the world has not stopped turning. _What’s the point of having power if you don’t do anything with it?_

“Of course it is,” she says, haughty now. “So why did you ask in the first place? Besides, it’s far too cold for me here.” 

He frowns at her, thinking on all of the question he asked her over the course of their lives that he already knew the answers to. He decides to ask something he honestly isn’t sure about. 

“Will I see you again?” 

“Perhaps,” she smirks. “With-”

“A thousand eyes and one, yes,” Brynden finishes for her, scowling. He turns back to glare out over the ice and snow, contemplating the rest of his life without her, which is a reality he thought he already dealt with long ago. 

Shiera continues to look up at him, frowning. “Maybe I should not have come.” 

“Perhaps, but here you are in any case.” He glances at her from the corner of his eye. She looks unhappy, and he wishes that it were not so. “You know, you ruined my dramatic farewell. I was quite satisfied with the way we ended things back in Kings Landing.”

She snorts. “Since when are we so traditional? That should not have been our final goodbye, it was far too...storybook,” she says the word like it’s a curse, and Brynden laughs. 

“What then?” 

She meets his gaze and smiles. “ _Magic._ You have a destiny to prepare for, Brynden Targaryen.”


End file.
